Mutual Respect
by AliaAtreidesBr
Summary: Selina Kyle, the Catwoman, doesn't like the new Robin. The new Robin, Damian Wayne, hates his father's former lover. But with Bruce dead, could they possibly find a way to respect each other? Post "Batman: RIP",before "The Return of Bruce Wayne".
1. Chapter 1

_So, no, I don't like Damian. I have my reasons. They make perfect sense._

_But here he is: in Batman's scenario and storyline, and no matter how much I disliked him, that wouldn't change anything._

_I want to try something different, then: to understand him. Maybe, just maybe, he has something interesting to say._

_This story is me, trying to listen to this little guy. I would like very much for you to join me in this._

_Have fun!_

_AliaAtreidesBr_

* * *

><p>Selina heard the noises of the fight on the ground, many levels below the rooftop in which she was comfortably installed.<p>

Her intention was to take a short break – she had just dealt with a drug dealer and his miserable gang, and although that was a _simple_ job, well, she thought she deserved a minute to herself. Still, gunshots and the sudden noise of a vehicle crashing into something was tempting; many voices, heavy guns, maybe even a small explosion. That was attracting attention and seemed more than the ordinary crime-fighting gig.

She thought of Dick, of course. Not only was he the one under the Batman's cowl these days, the pyrotechnics and less concern for discretion was closer to his style. Bruce had always been the silent, resourceful one; he had the talent when it came to concealing himself in dark corners and making as much noise as a sly cat. Dick… well, Dick was more of a showman. Or a _showoff_, as she liked to call him when he was a kid. Now as Batman, he had improved his detective skills, his surprise attacks, his tactical thought, no doubt. But he wasn't Bruce, and it was interesting how less mysterious and how much more acrobatic the Dark Knight was slowly becoming.

That wasn't necessarily a bad thing, she pondered.

In a dexterous jump she reached the next building, and looked over its north edge. Down there, right at the main avenue that cut the East Side, chaos ran free: a large van smashed against the wall of a small restaurant, a group of three men taking shelter behind it as they shot without restraint at the other side. Twenty feet away, protecting himself from the rain of bullets, a cornered Robin found himself precariously shielded behind his ruined motorcycle. Batman was nowhere to be seen, and Selina deduced he in fact wasn't around – no Batcar, no signs of him covering for his sidekick. She knew more than a bit about the way Bruce and his pupils worked, and this one wasn't their style, not even Dick's more directive approach. He was bold, not suicidal, and definitely not dumb. That mess down there?

That kid had done it all by himself, no doubt.

She took her time, of course. That boy down there, well, she had no love for him, of course. _Damian_. Damian _Wayne_, actually; allegedly the son Bruce had with that Talia al Ghul, damn woman that knew exactly how to make other people life harder and more complicated. Or _worst_. A talent her son seemed to have inherited.

That brat was a nuisance, to say the least. He had showed nothing but contempt for Selina and her counterpart Catwoman, but that wasn't the thing that really bothered her. Truth was, she _had_ a past, and not a very honorable one. And, honestly, she didn't look for approval; never asked for Bruce's endorsement, why would she even care what a spoiled little devil-child thought? No, she could easily ignore new Robin's impoliteness and his potty mouth (yet another thing he _must_ have learned from his mother, who so easily spread words like whore and bitch around). What she _couldn't_ ignore, though, was how disrespectful he was about Bruce's legacy and lifelong work. She hated how he underestimated the power Batman had, its symbol, its importance in Gotham. She hated how he was so often unkind, or plain rude to Dick and Alfred, and how he took for granted all Bruce had built. Everything was _stupid_, or _dumb_, or _old_. He walked around in Robin's outfit like he deserved it, like he could even be _compared_ to Tim – he wasn't half the boy wonder any of his predecessors had ever been. The despise he showed made Selina sick to her stomach, and she had often wished she had the opportunity of teaching one or two things to the new Robin about respect – preferably in a very physical manner, with a good amount of pain.

She couldn't do that, though. For all that matters, he was Robin right now, he was Dick's protégée, and he was Bruce's son. _His flesh and blood_.

Selina knew she could remain in her inner debate forever, but there was no point: it wasn't really a choice. Damian was despicable, but he was still a kid. Crawling under the pieces of his bike, gunfire over his head, a nasty cut in one of his arms, he looked more like a defenseless child than the overconfident, vain pubescent he tried so hard to be. And in his cold expression, his fierce eyes and determined features, she couldn't help but to see _him_; an imperfect, yet faithful reproduction of those things she had admired and loved in Bruce.

The advantage of her position gave her the leverage she needed. It was easy enough to calculate her jump and land over those guys, three seconds spend to get the effective result that saved Robin's skin. Guns out of the picture, the boy quickly approached the prize:

"I take it from here", he said, his voice forced in a tone meant to simulate a man's voice, not a kid's. It was comical, in Selina's point of view.

"Cool off, little boy", she roughly returned, "why don't you just take your scooter and go home to treat your boo-boo?"

His face turned bright red; his eyes, pools of deep anger and despise – now _that_ wasn't Bruce. In all the years she had known him, as Bruce and Batman both, never she received such a sour, cruel glance from him. To be honest, she believed he wasn't capable of that: stare another human being as one stares an insect, in complete disregard for his life. No, the Batman she knew would never treat someone like that, not even one of his enemies. That look, that expression, that was Talia and grandpa Ra's in Damian eyes.

"You're lucky I've recently changed my _modus operandi_", he growled, "or your head would have fallen from your shoulders long ago."

She smirked. "Right. Lucky me."

Robin didn't answer; he kept that unpleasant expression and began to handcuff the men lying unconscious near their feet.

Without a word, Selina joined him in that task.

"What do you think you're doing?", he suddenly asked, his tone showing obvious outrage.

Catwoman rolled her eyes:

"What I've been doing for far too long, it seems: babysitting."

This time he didn't focus in her sarcastic joke; finger pointed directly to Selina's face – who was at least one foot taller than him -, he spoke in a way that suggested some sort of authority had been given to him by superior forces:

"Listen, _woman_!" He frowned in a particular way that reminded her of Bruce so much her heart skipped a beat. "Your presence in Gotham was shamefully tolerated by my father when he was alive, and his successor doesn't seem prone to change that, but you better be aware of this: in my eyes, you are my _enemy_! You are a criminal, and you belong to jail… if not worst."

"Oh", she said with a smile, "you should have told me that before I _saved_ you ass, Birdie… spared me the trouble, spared me the time." She tossed one of the plastic handcuffs on her hand at him. "Enjoy."

"Thank you", he muttered, looking anything but grateful, "I will…"

Selina didn't waste another second: in a few minutes she was already over the city, nothing between her and the night sky. That was the end of her patrol, however – she suddenly felt she needed her own home and bed. That _kid_ had drained all her good will and the disposition to do selfless things for that night. He was so obnoxious, and it felt so _wrong_ to see him speaking of Gotham like he _owned_ it, like he knew the first thing about crime-fighting, about being a hero, about her, even about _Bruce_…

That was the worst, of course; the one thing she thought she had finally been able to manage… how she missed _him_. In that last month or so Selina had been able to find a way of putting it behind. She had returned to her nocturnal adventures, she had found consolation in her good actions and in the idea that she was, by helping innocent people and helping the _new _Batman, honoring Bruce. Doing something he would like to see her do – that helped her feel close to him somehow, and in peace. Whole again. She thought she was finally _over_ it. Coping. Getting her life back…

Tonight, she realized she wasn't. She still missed _him_ too much. And she _hated_ Damian, she _hated_ his son. Because that boy brought all kind of thoughts, memories and moments to her mind, reminding her of how small was her part in Bruce's life, and how lonely she was… That crazy life of hers, the one that had, many years ago, been inspired by Batman's first adventures, had become her _entire_ life. She lost friends, family, she had to give up her daughter because she just couldn't protect Helena from the repercussions of all this. And all this time, all these years, she had trusted this: Batman, and his presence in her life. As enemy or ally, in her good and her bad moments, Bruce would be there.

Except he wasn't. He had _died_, and it was so absurd, she now realized, to think it wouldn't end this way. And what did she had left? Bruce's boys?

Dick was such a wonderful kid, but now he was so overwhelmed by all that responsibility, by the burden of being Batman in Bruce's place. In a way, Dick had been stolen of his identity and his life too. He had to fill Bruce's shoes and, hell, who in a sane mind would want that job?

Tim, poor Tim… he had chosen to trail his own path, away from Gotham if he had to, away from all that reminded him of Bruce. That was painful – of all the "Robins" Selina knew, Tim was the one she had actually been closer to. Perhaps because of Helena, and how he had such a protective and caring attitude towards her. Or maybe because he was so smart, so brave, and yet so gentle. He could be a tough young man when he was patrolling the streets, but the rest of the time… he was a sweet kid. So faithful to his mentor, so loyal; he would do anything for Bruce, Selina always knew. And that's probably why he wasn't too happy about Damian wearing his old uniform and name…

Because _Damian_, that brat, he was undeniably one of Bruce's boys. In all his faults and problems, Selina was disturbed to notice how Bruce could be seen in that child. That wasn't because the kid mimicked his father – it was precisely because Bruce _was_ his father. It was in their genes, in that unconscious gesture, or that way of pursing their lips. She had resisted the affirmation that Damian looked like Bruce, and it was true that, in the traces of his features, in his slim body, he physically reminded Talia and that vile "al Ghul" appearance. However, it was also factual that tonight, while watching the child's chiseled profile under the twilight of Gotham's artificial lights, she saw the exact expression Bruce displayed when focused in a hard task, and shivered when noticing both Damian and his father had the same forehead, same chin, same strong and agile hands.

That new Robin was Batman's son, undeniably. He was what was left on this Earth that carried the flesh and blood of the man she had loved. Still, she had never assumed it was reason enough for her to _like _him, quite the contrary; she had fervently believed that Bruce would never go easy on that boy, or tolerate that awful behavior simply because that creature shared his D.N.A.. That's the way it was with _him_, right? You had to _prove_ you could be trusted; you had to give a hundred and ten per cent every day to even _consider_ reaching Batman's high standards. His trust was a costly item, she knew that first hand.

And yet…

She had always seen in the former Batman odd signs that all the "merciless caped crusader" act was also that: an act. Bruce needed people fearing and respecting him, sure – in the end of the day, he was just a man, and though he was an _extraordinary_ man, he also had to nurture every small advantage at his reach, fear being a pivotal one. It was easy to believe he was that harsh, ruthless person in every aspect of his life; it took time and rare opportunities to see he was actually _more_.

Batman, in fact, was a character built by loss – but Bruce had time and time again showed that it was his desire to _fix_ everything that moved him. That, and his inability to quit or give up. And the fact she was there right now, fighting crime instead of perpetrating it, was enough proof that Batman, that _Bruce_, could forgive and forget, and be persuasive even in his lack of verbal requests. Proof that he believed in people changing, that he had _hopes_.

Perhaps it was that kind of belief that placed Damian in Robin's role. The boy was a child, not much older than Bruce was when his parents died. Just a child, who had lived his first years among assassins and criminals, under the influence of a mother that was probably closer to insane than to caring – yet another thing Selina could relate to.

Maybe the fact he was Bruce's biological son shouldn't mean anything; the fact that he had chosen to follow his father's steps, even if tumbling here and there, now _that_ meant something.

And maybe that was also an angle Bruce would like her to consider, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

Rain. So much rain.

A storm, really. In the days prior to that night, there had been talk all over the news about a bad hurricane, but, luckily, those winds lost most of its strength before hitting the coast. Luck. Gotham needed some of that, no doubt – it rarely got it. If anything, Gotham City was an unlucky place, the town in which everything seemed to happen.

Or at least that was how Selina felt.

Maybe that wasn't a hurricane outside, but it was one hell of a storm; there was already so much damage caused by the blustery weather, and probably more to come. She predicted tough days to come, both to the people of Gotham and, of course, to those that were there to protect them.

That night, however, she pondered if patrolling the streets was even worth it; rain poured, the wind blew, and most people took shelter in their homes. Those that didn't, or that in fact had no home, were placed in shelters. Streets were empty, at least in the East Side, and Selina figured that, for once, that part of town wouldn't be badly punished by the storm. There were few trees, most of the borough was of old brick buildings, and the river ran far from there. The worst part of the storm should hit them by morning, and the risk of floods were minimum until then – could that be the opportunity for her to take a night off of her vigilante duties?

_Baby steps_, she considered. It was half past ten, and she wouldn't be out before midnight anyway. Not that she was anxious about jumping over rooftops under so much water, but still… if she was going to do it, better prepare herself with a nice cup of tea and a decent meal – she couldn't remember the last time she had one.

Breakfast for dinner; Selina was the first to admit she lacked culinary abilities, but could manage a decent plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. Then, tea; outside, the rain had turned Gotham into a shadow, barely visible through the heavy water wall that danced under the irregular pace of that crazy, spinning wind. She sighed while staring at the window: that was one of those nights, and in moments like that she missed her carefree days as thief, when she had complete autonomy to decide her schedule, no guilt feelings if she simply decided it was a good night to stay home and rest…

By eleven she still hadn't found the courage to dress in her Catwoman suit. She sat on her couch and turned the television on, watching live reports of how the storm was affecting her town. There, the same tedious news over and over again, she dozed off into a light, restless sleep.

She woke up in darkness, the soft sound of light steps close to her window making her jump to her feet in a nimble movement. There wasn't a single light, in her apartment or outside – power was down, probably, and she censured herself for not keeping a flashlight at hand. Despite that, as lightening flashed for seconds outside, she was able to make out the outline of someone peering through the glass of her living room window. Short, slim, masked and colorful: she knew but one little fellow that matched the description.

He couldn't hear her with thunders and the sound of that fierce wind blowing, so she approached him and signed with her right hand for him to get inside. He did, opening the window by himself (he had already unlocked it, the little devil), and gently stepping in her old, noisy wood board floor – it barely squealed under his light weight. Unlike her, he had a flashlight, one that he pointed directly at her face.

"Hey", she protested, "turn that somewhere else, Damian!"

She protected her eyes from his bright light, now able to see the boy was in a pitiable state: wet to the bones, his uniform dirty, mud (she hoped it was just mud) to his knees. His hair was a greasy, dirty mess, and he was wearing just one glove; on his forehead, a deep cut, precariously tended, and a trail of blood that came from there and crossed his face and neck, finishing in a large and dark spot on his shoulder.

"It's _Robin_", he barked. "Damn it, woman! We have codenames for a reason!"

He seemed pretty alert, at least.

"Okay, Wonder Boy…" As he darted his light at every corner of her living room, studying it in a suspicious gaze, she wondered if his presence there was destiny's unfunny way of showing her vigilantes weren't allowed any breaks. She finally asked:

"What happened to you? You look like you've just taken a tour through Gotham's sewers… or worst."

He snorted in despise. "It was one of my stops, yes."

Selina remained in silence, her inquisitive glance all he needed to proceed with the narrative of his most recent adventures.

"Killer Croc was on the loose, as I'm sure you _don't_ know. Batman and I pursued him all over town, for almost three nights – finally caught up with him a couple hours ago."

"Oh", she commented, succeeding in not letting her emotions surface. She didn't want the kid to have anything to brag about, but she couldn't help admire someone that had the guts to face Killer Croc. "I guess that explains your clothes, and that bump on your head. And the smell, of course."

Damian raised his hand to the wound in his forehead, touching it lightly. "This? It's nothing."

"One _big_ nothing that is, and it will leave a nice scar for you to show off."

Selina couldn't help a smile. Scars and battle wounds reminded her of the boy's father, and how he was always prone to dismiss them as mere scratches, even if he had been shot or stabbed. It made her nervous, sometimes, how Bruce refused to accept he was just a _man_, not bullet proof; he could be hurt, _killed_, and the way he simple didn't seem to register that fact had always bothered her – she wanted to yell at him sometimes, force some sense into that stubborn man. _Can't you see this will kill you?_, she often thought of saying.

But she never did. Never. Probably because that attitude, a strange mix of arrogance and boldness, was something she deeply admired. Besides, what would Batman do without his ability to ignore adverse odds and still do what he had to? A cautious person would never be one to dress an outfit and go fight crime – she knew it too well.

"Seat down", she told the boy. To her surprise, he didn't debate that, merely moving the two steps the separated him from the couch, and letting himself fall there.

"I guess you need a towel", she thought out loud. "And something to clean this _nothing_, because it's bleeding all over my furniture."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah… whatever."

She left the room and went to the bathroom, looking for her clean towels and the first-aid kit she kept. To her surprise, she heard Damian speak to her:

"This wasn't my idea, you know? Coming here…"

She had speculated about that herself, but didn't want to go there until the kid was at least bandaged. Selina didn't know him very well, of course, but he was no enigma; if she asked too much, he would shut and probably leave. And she wasn't sure that's exactly what she wanted at that moment.

Returning to the living room, she tossed a couple towels at him, and sat by his side. "Let's have a look at this scratch… can I have your flashlight?"

He had been idly playing with it, making the light dance on Selina's walls without a real purpose. He gave her the flashlight, his expression showing no emotions. She took it and carefully examined the bloody wound, at the same time wondering how old, exactly, Damian was. He looked like he hadn't yet reached his teens, and that was probably an accurate estimative; he wasn't a particularly tall kid, but he couldn't be more than eleven, twelve at the most, could he?

Well, whatever his age, he was certainly too young to be doing that.

"Ouch", the boy complained. No surprise: she had been poking mercilessly that gory gash in his head, and it had to be painful. Selina was no stranger to that kind of collateral effect of the hero life, though she admitted she had always been lucky when it came to getting hurt. She was the Catwoman, and for good reason: dodging and avoiding were her methods, and she rarely put herself in a situation she wasn't in advantage, or at least in which she could see a way out. Bruce, Dick, Tim… they were a different kind. They did the _right_ thing. It didn't matter if that ended up putting them in the most impossible situation. _It has to be done_, how often had she heard Bruce say?

"Sorry", she apologized, though she didn't feel especially concerned about the pain she caused him – Damian's charm made hard to feel sympathy for him. As to confirm that, he kept saying it:

"Geez, I didn't think there could be anyone less skilled than Pennyworth in this, but you sure _suck_!"

"Thank you, Damian", Selina sarcastically obliged. "It's really a very smart move, to insult the person that is tending your wounds."

He shrugged in indifference. "I have no hopes; you're probably just going to make a mess, anyway."

"Oh, yeah?" She gave the flashlight back to him and moved his hand until she found a good position for him to hold it over his own forehead.

"Yes. The only reason I came here was because Batman told me to; the rain ruined part of the road back to the cave, and it will be a while before we can get there safely. Besides, Batman still wanted to go over the docks, so…"

"I get it, I get it… I was your last and only choice, right?"

"Right. _And_ you were probably the only one home. Batman said you would be too lazy to patrol during the storm anyway…"

"Excuse me? He said I was _lazy_?"

She was cleaning his cut while he spoke, but she halted for a moment to stare at him. He returned her glance, but didn't answer her question immediately; he seemed to think for a moment, then taking a deep breath and lightly biting his lower lip. Just then he finally said:

"Well… not in so many _words_…" He avoided her eyes. "When he suggested I come here, I pondered you would probably be out, and he said you wouldn't; '_too much rain for a cat venture outside'_, he said."

Selina smirked. "Oh, well, I can't say he was wrong." She was almost done with the asepsis, and the wound looked clean to her, but he definitely needed stitches. Placing some gauze over it, she told him to hold it and press it, which he obediently followed.

"I can bandage your head and you could lie down for some time and rest. Then, in the morning, I could help you get home, or I'll take you to a clinic after getting you some civilian clothes…"

"What?" He looked at her in genuine disappointment, instead of the ordinary expression of despise. "No way, I can't wait 'til morning!"

"You can't wait? You were not thinking about getting back…"

"Of course I was! Batman needs me! There's a freaking hurricane outside, a blackout that we have no idea for how long is going to last, and pretty soon we'll have _bad_ people all over the streets to try and take advantage of all that…"

"I know kid, but…"

"No, you _don't_ know! This is a _game_ for you…! A hobby! You do it because you think it's thrilling, because there wasn't anything else in stealing that still made your blood boil…"

"Hey!" She interrupted him abruptly, not only speaking louder than him, but also grabbing his arm and forcing his eyes on hers. "Shut. Up. Don't speak about what you know _shit_ about, understand?"

In his passionate tantrum he had let the gauze fall from him head, and blood now began to flow again – a thin red line that crossed over his eye and outlined the corner of his mouth. Like that, Selina thought, he didn't look like a boy at all. He pressed his lips together, and perhaps Selina had been able to intimidate him somehow; his eyes, however, remained defiant and unforgiving.

"You want me to sew you, is that it?" She was furious, and Selina would be the first to admit it; despite that, she managed to keep her tone cold and steady, no more than a whisper she hissed through her clenched teeth.

"Yes", he said it as throwing a challenge, and not simply admitting his wishes. "Do it. If you _can_, that is."

"I can", she returned immediately. "Of course I can. Though all I have is a simple first-aid kit, none of those fancy equipments and drugs you have in your little cave… or at your mother's house, castle, hole in the ground, whichever damn place she lives right now."

"Leave my mother out of this, _Selina_."

She held her breath; the way he said her name… was he aware that he sounded like his father? The same intonation, and how he prolonged that first syllable, the disapproval and a hint of sadness…? If he knew it, he gave no sign of it.

"If you have a needle and a line, that would be enough. Anesthetics are a luxury we are trained to live without in the League of Assassins."

"Glad to hear it", she snapped.

She went to the kitchen and brought her own battery operated LED lamp. It was a work of precision, this business of stitching someone, and, in all honesty, she _hated_ doing it. It was true she had no anesthetics, and she was pretty sure the few needles she had probably weren't the most appropriated for Damian's wounds, but the main reason for her to not offer the _procedure_ was that she wasn't comfortable doing it. Not in other people, at least. She had lost count of how many times she had sutured herself in her own bathroom, but could count in one hand the times she had done it to someone else – and she had hated all of them.

Holly had been the usual victim – poor girl -, but not the only one. She vividly recalled the last time she had forced herself to use a needle, and it had been in Bruce, of all people.

The situation had been unpleasant enough: they had met each other pursuing the same crowd, a group of young men that had, among other felonies, gang rapped a teenager in the worst part of the East Side. Selina had been the one who found her, too late for her to do anything but assist the girl until the ambulance arrived. It was shocking, she admitted, seeing that fourteen year-old abused and hurt, then abandoned, left to die. She knew then that she had to find the people who did that, and she also knew that, if she wanted to do it quickly and surely, _his_ help would go a long way.

Bruce made himself immediately available – or Batman did, actually. They worked together for a few hours, and he proved how effective he could be: before the sunrise, the whole gang was in Gotham's finest hands.

That dedication didn't went unharmed, however; when they found the criminals, a group of almost twenty, Selina forgot all her usual subtleness and made a point in teaching a lesson to every single one of those guys. And so invested she was in that task, she eventually allowed herself a moment of silly recklessness.

_A moment is all it takes_, Bruce would later remind her.

There was this one man, he was faster and smarter than the rest. Not impressive, and not especially dangerous, but still; she didn't gave him enough credit. Once she had taken his gun, she kicked him and turned her back on him – those were pathetic adversaries when considering her skills -, convinced he was done. Well, he wasn't: he had a knife, and her blow hadn't been enough to take him out of action. The man jumped on her, grabbed her, and the knife went straight down at her neck.

That could have been the end for her. It was close. So close.

But Bruce was there, of course. That crazy man… he intercepted the blade with his bare arm, the knife piercing his body armor and burying deep in his flesh. That gave Selina the advantage she needed, and soon the man was definitely and positively out of action. And Bruce's arm… well, it wasn't exactly a mortal wound, but he bleed profusely; she just couldn't let him deal with it by himself.

"Are you doing it or what?"

It was Damian; he was getting restless, she noticed, waiting for her to get the needles and lines ready, taking her time to wash her hands and put the rubber gloves. Of course. Such a _kid_, that one. She remembered that one night, when she brought Bruce to her apartment: he had been the cool one, telling her he was okay, that she should take her time to prepare herself. She had dismissed his care, hiding her hesitance in sarcastic remarks, pretending she knew what she was doing – fortunately, Bruce knew her better than that.

"Patience, little Robin, patience… never heard that's a virtue?"

"Sure. You should use your cute proverb to consol the people who are out there, _not _getting any help while you dawdle…"

Maybe she _was_ dawdling, wasn't she? She thought of Bruce, and how he would never rush her into something like that, something he knew she _hated_, and how he would, despite the fact that he was the one injured, always look so serene. That was one of the things he had mastered, in all those years, and she marveled at it always: his self-control, the ability to never panic, even if in great pain.

It occurred to her now that, maybe, Damian was in pain. Perhaps nervous, even scared. Could it be?

She would never be able to tell; he too made sure that no one actually saw through his "tough boy" act, and, considering his past, it was easy to buy. He had grown up among assassins, and any signs of fear or kindness would inevitably be seen as weakness – maybe she didn't know much about life among highly trained mercenaries, terrorists and hired guns, but she had the feeling it wasn't so different from growing up in Gotham's streets, among its human scum.

"Look", she said, needle in one of her gloved hands, "I'll do this as quickly as I can. So you can fly away from here and join your big brother."

"He's not my brother", he grunted.

Selina ignored the last remark.

"It's best if you lay down."

He reclined on her couch, no words but a grave expression in his features.

"I suppose you don't need the warning but…" She couldn't help a sigh. "This will probably hurt."

"Just do it already", he mumbled in impatience, closing his eyes.

And so she did.

Piercing his soft, youthful skin, she again allowed herself to think about how young that boy was. Kids that age, if submitted to a suture without the comfort of anesthetics, would probably howl and scream at the first touch of that needle. Hell, they would probably cry even if they were given anesthetics. Damian, however, quietly pursed his lips and didn't allow a single sound out of that mouth of his – Selina was undecided if that was something to admire or to abhor. There was something vile, she thought, in teaching a child to hide his emotions in such a powerful, undisputed manner. That boy had been robbed of something, she realized. The same something Bruce had been robbed of when his parents were killed, or she had been robbed that first night she had to take her clothes off for money.

Because there _was_ pain; she saw it, even if the boy did all he could to not show it. The sweat on his forehead; slight trembling of his lips; the involuntary, though occasional spasms of his hands he couldn't completely control. Had he been an ordinary kid, or any other kid at all, she imagined that words of reassurance would come; she would tell him it was okay, that she was _almost_ done, that she was sorry she was hurting him. Those words were there: in her mind, unable to gain life in her voice.

That night, few months ago, it had been Bruce suffering through her inept hands. She remembered asking him if it hurt much. _Not much_, he had answered. _Liar_, she joked. He smiled. She held his hand; _I'm sorry_, she apologized. _This is not your fault, Selina_. _It's not a mistake you've to punish yourself for._

Bruce knew her well.

He probably knew she would always blame herself for it, then.

"Done", she finally announced. And it was done indeed, all twenty one stitches, decently put together.

Damian opened his eyes at last. He raised a hand to touch his forehead, but Selina stopped him:

"Hey. Don't mess with it, okay?"

He nodded in agreement – the effort to keep himself from demonstrating pain during the procedure seemed to had drained his energies. He was silent and pale, breathing heavily.

"Want to take a look at the mirror? Check if I did such a terrible work, after all?"

This time he denied the offer. "It's fine. I don't care."

"Do as it pleases you."

She gathered the bloody gauzes and used needles and towels. He stared at her in an enigmatic way, but she knew better:

"Don't worry. I'll dispose of all this in… an appropriate manner. Your father taught me long ago I should never leave DNA samples to go with common garbage." She smiled. "Last time he had to trust my poor medical abilities, he made me _burn_ everything before he left, I swear."

"Did he?" The boy seemed genuinely interested.

"Oh, yeah. We went to the roof and made a pretty fire…"

"No", he interrupted, "no, I mean… did you _help_ him like that? Tending his wounds… helping him while he was _hurt_?"

It was Selina's turn to study Damian – that was it, wasn't it? The kid was beginning to understand that his father and her shared more things, were closer than he presumed. Now he knew: she was one of these people, the people that knew more about his father than he did.

"Yes, Damian. Every once in a while, if the situation asked for it… I would help him. And he would do it for me too – he _did_, actually, many times."

He was quiet for a moment. Selina went to kitchen and brought him some tea.

"It's cold. I'm sorry."

He drank it, nonetheless. Once he was finished with it, he stood up.

"I have to go."

"I know. Someone needs you… someone _always_ does." She smiled. "Say 'hi' to Dick for me, will you?"

He frowned for a second, and Selina was sure he would have one of his unpleasant remarks for her, but he simply agreed:

"Will do."

He went the same way he came: through the window. Yet another thing in which he reminded her of Bruce.

It was about three in the morning, she checked. Power still down in the entire city, it seemed, and the storm at full strength outside. Still, it was _only_ three.

She had enough time to go for a rooftop walk.


	3. Chapter 3

Father. _Father_. How strange and odd the word still sounds to me.

I wonder, _father_, where you could be, and I also allow myself silent reflections about this: do you ever think of me, your one and only biological son?

Perhaps I shouldn't consider this. It's not important, that much I admit. If you ever include me in your reminiscences about the past is a vain thought that wouldn't make a difference in the outcome of things to come. To believe you are not dead is also the belief in a future where we could again join forces and be together, fight crime, as you would certainly wish, and I would have the opportunity of show you how truly worthy of your name I am.

I've sacrificed much for this, father.

For this, I've left my mother's side. I'm sure you think poorly of her, Talia, my mother – I do admit her choices were not wise. Still, wouldn't you admire her? Don't you think she did a good job with _me_?

In many ways, I think she did.

She trained me, she pushed me, she made me strong. She wanted to make me the leader of her League, yes; but she has also made me this fine weapon, one that can be used in so many ways… and one of those is this: fight for Gotham, protect it, put down those that threaten your town. Your _kingdom_, father. I have no illusions; I know you think of Gotham as _yours_, and it is. In more ways than one.

Mother taught me like that: she would always tell me about you. She would speak for hours long about you, about _Batman_, and your adventures would guide me to my restless sleep. Her tales were fascinating, father, and I knew you like that: through my mother's eyes. And, oh, I do know now, as I sensed then, that her picture of you is very particular. Talia is, after all, her father's daughter, and she was less worried about the truth and more concerned about your impact in my life, in my future as the great heir of both Ra's al Ghul's and Batman's legacy. That's why you were showed to me as, perhaps, more dark, lonely, merciless than you actually are. That's why your kindness to strangers, your unbreakable sense of justice and your rigid personal ethics were never too important in her stories.

Neither were the relationships you had with others, the single exception being herself, of course.

I knew of them. Grayson, for one – mother told me about Robin, and it was inevitable that his name and those of his successors were brought up. She never emphasized, though, the fact that Grayson, Drake, even Jason Todd, they were like sons for you. She made it sound like those Robins were disposable sidekicks, kids you were forced to endure, not people you _cared_ about. Because she wanted me to desire this place. She wanted me to believe I was the one that should be by your side, no matter what. It was my _right_, my heritage, the legacy that would naturally be passed to me.

I still believe in this. Kind of.

I knew so much about you, father. So much. I knew things you had done, places you had been, your tactics, your combat styles. The way you dressed. How you talked. The color of your eyes. I know all the similarities between our faces, all the physical traits I inherited from you. I'm so much like you, father…!

And I'm not.

When I frown, it should be identical to you, we have the same eyebrows – than why you seemed thoughtful in this gesture when I simply look cruel?

There's so much I _don't _know about you, father.

There's Selina Kyle, the Catwoman. Why don't I know more about her?

Mother told me. Another of your usual foes. A thief. And perhaps one among many women you had in your life. Oh, that wasn't a shock. Mother never spared me the kind of detail parents usually keep from their children. Human reproduction was never a mystery to me, neither were the elements of the courtship between men and women. It was just another thing I had to learn, one among many, and it was a relief to know it was something I wouldn't be practicing for a few years still. Just another _fact_.

I never gave a second thought to that, to the possible relationship between you and that Selina Kyle. It didn't matter. And when I entered your life, there wasn't anything in it that could make me think differently.

Now, father, now I wonder why.

I don't make anything of my mother's behavior, because it's to be expected. She would want me to think she was the only woman that was ever important to you – perhaps she genuinely believes so. But you…

You never mentioned Selina Kyle when you were around me. In fact, I now understand you made an effort to keep any information about her from me. Why, father? Why?

Was it because you thought my "childish" mind would resent you or your little project of a girlfriend? Did you want to protect my immature feelings and our frail relationship…?

Or was it because you didn't _trust_ me?

Perhaps you feared I would be jealous of her. And then what, right? You couldn't predict my reaction. You didn't know if I would dismiss it as a silly thing or maybe feel threatened, if Selina would just remain as insignificant as she has always been to me or if I would see her as yet another adversary to be… _destroyed._

You didn't want me to _hurt_ her, right?

I have no illusions – I know it wasn't _my_ safety that worried you.

And I do confess: back when we first met, I can't guarantee I wouldn't do something foolish. My younger, less scrupulous self would have probably enjoyed the challenge of fighting Catwoman, the notorious thief; that, and I wouldn't mind the attention you surely would have awarded me with if I threatened her.

You think of me as cold-hearted, father. And I know you don't blame it exactly on me, but on my mother and the way I was brought up. Oddly, this is no comfort. It's not helpful, not if one's father is _you_, you and your unreachable standards, your shameless judgments, your self-righteousness. You spare no one: not Grayson, Jason, Drake, my mother, the other heroes, not even Superman or Wonder Woman, certainly not me.

Then why do you spare _her_?

This is a former thief we talk about. A _criminal_. The kind of person you swore on your parents' grave you would fight and eradicate. Does it really matter that she has redeemed herself? Shouldn't she pay for her former crimes anyway?

Never mind that – let's talk about the fact that she is a murderer. _And _that you knew about it. Oh, yes, father. I cracked and hacked your famous firewalls, and I can read your encrypted files. Those you left only for Alfred eyes, the files he shouldn't reveal to anyone unless absolutely necessary. I read them now. I'm reading again about Black Mask's death, delivered by Selina's shot. She killed him, father. And you knew that.

I guess double standards aren't unknown to you, after all.

I've also found the file about Helena. Baby Helena. Her _daughter. _The child she eventually gave up to adoption because she feared for the girl's safety. And in that endeavor you assisted her – that doesn't surprise me, I must confess. What does shock me, however, is the personal comments I find through this file, simply named "precious". Here you write, in mid-November:

"_I saw her today, the child. She's beautiful. Looks like Selina, but also doesn't – I searched her features for similarities from my own face, even though I had promised myself I wouldn't. Nothing conclusive. I don't have enough data, and I don't know if I'll ever have. Selina told me we needed to talk, and instead of anxiety, I felt hope. Reason tells me that the chances of Helena being my daughter are slim, but I can't help it. I see that innocent, undefiled face, Selina's green eyes replicated there… and I can't avoid the silent wish, the wish that, by some strange and undeserved miracle, I could call her mine."_

Oh, father. That's almost sad. It's certainly pathetic. Just not as pathetic as this other paragraph, written a couple months later:

"_Selina finally confirmed it tonight: Sam Bradley Jr. is Helena's father, as I had deduced. This makes the child an orphan and myself… I don't know what to call it. I certainly feel empty, like I've been robbed of something. It's unfair in so many ways, I know Selina owns me nothing, but I do feel like I have been wronged, somehow. Not by her, but by myself. I feel foolish. A fool for trying to convince myself there was a chance I could be the baby's father, and even more of a fool because I'm not. I could have been; if I hadn't always been so reticent about this relationship, if I had allowed myself to actually grab this opportunity with Selina that I had in my hands. Or perhaps even if I had, just once, just for one night, been spontaneous and less responsible, if I had risked and allowed fate, destiny, God, whatever or whoever is in charge, if I had allowed someone else decide if a child would be conceived… what then? Maybe today I would be able to be called "father" by someone."_

It's funny, father. If this date is right, then you already knew about me. You _were_ a father already. _My_ father. Or perhaps you didn't believe my mother? You doubted her words, you needed to confirm it by running DNA tests, by studying me? Or maybe you just didn't want it to be true. Maybe you _knew_ I was your biological son – you just didn't consider me worthy of the title. Those are painful thoughts. It's a good thing that your writing brings me comfort, this section from months later in particular:

"_It finally happened. The one thing I feared the most, that idea in Selina's mind that I had been able to often read in her eyes. I hoped, how I hoped she would never be brave enough to actually ask me. Brave, however, is precisely what she is, as I should already know. And it took all her courage, all her heart, to ask me this: help to find an adoptive home for Helena. From my part, it demanded all my will power to keep me from trying to dissuade her. Just the thought of seeing Helena go… or what will happen to Selina when it finally happens, when the moment to deliver her child to someone else actually comes… I fear it. I fear it will destroy her. And I fear what it could do to me also."_

Fear, father? You had _fears_ about that? Well, you were right to, as my favorite part of this file confirms:

"_She's gone. She's gone. I say these words to myself time and time again, as it could help me make sense of this brutal fact. Like the repetition could make it easier, or relieve the pain. Tonight I feel… broken. Not simply sad, not just the bearer of a broken heart: I just can't find that strength, that one thing that keeps you awake and alive when nothing else does. And my God, if there's a crime fighter in this world that relies in that small advantage of pure will power, that crime fighter is Batman. But not tonight. Not tonight. Tonight, I fell like my world doesn't make sense anymore. I did what Selina asked of me, but I also know I failed her monumentally. I was unable to help her in what she needed the most: a safe world where she could just be with her daughter and be a mom. I failed Helena. I couldn't protect her enough. She lost her mother, the one person that was her whole world. Ah, yes, I tell myself over and over that she will be alright, she's in right hands, she won't remember a thing… I just wish I could believe it. Tonight, I will not patrol. I can't. I look at my uniform and I just hate it. I hate my mission, and all that came from it – Selina giving up Helena, that came from Batman. It's because of Batman that Selina became Catwoman, and because of that we knew each other. And this life brought Selina here, now. I can't stand the sight. Tonight, I hate Batman. I hate myself and what I've become." _

Father, I just can't believe what I'm reading. The despair that is so obvious in your words. Is this what love is for you, father? And if it is, what does this woman and that child have done to earn it?

And where did I fail you to be judged so harshly, so undeserved of your graces?

To make things more confusing, you're not even here. If you were, would you have an answer to me?

I doubt.

I guess I'll have to find the answers on my own. At least, I now know where to search.


End file.
